The prompt for the creative act was the create something from a sensuous perspective. Sensuous being described as more logical, linear and structured. I decided to write a poem, but unlike the free-verse that is my usual medium, I chose one of the more structured types I could find: the sestina.
Wandering down the alleys of books,
I am transfixed by ivory spine and
Sheltered scalp, crooked beneath board
Where fingers scrape across the page.
A cat’s claws to a small boy’s chest,
Tearing flesh with irregular pattern!
Interactions between, of course, a pattern.
When the boy reads too many books
And see’s little of life, his hairless chest
Betraying the stupidity of young and
Young boys, in particular. Like
so many, this one used violence in shelter.
The feline of black and white colour, chest
Bristled sharply, unnatural under this shelter.
Friend to no human but only a dog and
Fat white cat. Charlie, a mate. Calm in pattern
And strong in spirit. One for the books
Said the farmer, the master like.
The tall German, brought over the ocean a chest
In lead, so heavy that it weighed the ship aboard.
Inside he hid his worldly goods: silver, bones and
Cheese scones. His pipe smoke drawing pattern
In study, lined with his pig farming account books.
The corner picture frame, clenched newspaper page.
Punching etched keys with a ch-chack on page,
The words scrawled themselves across his chest
And in his heart, where he thought lay books,
Captured from an imagination. Board
On all sides, the vessel of metaphor and pattern,
Image scattered like grains of sand over land, and
Cracking the goos of fingers and
Bone, he wallows up from a page
Of drunken lore. Tapping a pattern
In his palm with cigarette burning through chest.
Cool morning air, rushed to board—
Splashing the waves up against hull. No books.
Lives and memories, glossed faces tossed in a chest.
Resting at the bottom page, the back of the book and pinned to boards,
Red X meets at nose, a pattern of death. One more figure lost in the books.